


Vertigo

by iiscos



Series: Falling Series [2]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-01-17 20:41:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12373635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iiscos/pseuds/iiscos
Summary: Dani felt that he should say something to Marco, but “I’ve had three dreams about you in the past two nights” didn’t seem like an appropriate ice breaker.After his injury in the friendly against Italy, Dani has dreams and nightmares about Marco.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am still conflicted about Marco/Dani being a ridiculously adorable friendship or a ridiculously adorable romance, or both? or everything in between? 
> 
> In the meantime, I decided to torture Dani in fic, by giving him big, gay dreams about Marco lmao
> 
> This can be considered a sequel for Falling Up, but can also be read alone or ignored if bromance to romance isn't your thing. 
> 
> Again, thanks for all the love and feedback! Feel free to find me @ jamesalarcon on tumblr for more Marco/Dani headcanons, shenanigans, etc

“Hey, guys—Dani, look up!”

Dani diverted his attention from his phone briefly, just in time for Borja to capture his bemused expression in the corner of his selfie. They weren’t doing anything interesting in particular—they were on a _goddamn bus_ —but Borja smiled proudly at the picture nonetheless, the latest update for his flourishing social media.

Dani looked down at his phone, more specifically at the newest message illuminating his touch screen. It was from Marco.

_“Good luck today, captain ;)”_

Dani rolled his eyes. Sure, the responsibility of captaincy—which corresponded with seniority—had fallen to him this time around, after half of their former teammates outgrew the U21 squad, while a few others picked up injuries at the beginning of the domestic season. And of course, there was Marco, who still remained eligible to play for the U21s but have broken through to the senior team instead, soon to feature for Spain’s World Cup qualifiers against Italy and Litchensutein. Had Marco remained with the U21 side, the captain’s armband might very well be his.

 _“Thanks_ ,” Dani wrote back, before adding, _“I have replaced you with Borja”_

_“Come on, man :( ”_

_“Or Borja has replaced you with himself”_

_“Haha be nice to him, please”_

Dani glanced over to Borja a few seats in front, laughing and smiling next to Carlos Soler. For the longest time, Dani wondered if Borja’s outward persona was a façade, because no one in their right mind should be this happy, friendly, and inexplicably excited about everything _all the time_. But after three years spent with the national team and a few—albeit, intimate—weeks at Real Madrid, Dani had grown to accept that Borja was simply unique in his philosophy.

Borja had declared them roommates before they departed for the national team, since Jesús was injured and Marco was gone, and Dani and Borja were club teammates too now, so the decision seemed obvious. Dani wondered if Borja was a light sleeper like himself, or was he like Marco, who could snooze through five alarms.

The U21 team didn’t feel quite the same to Dani without Marco by his side. They had played together for so long that Marco’s presence felt fundamental, innate to their experiences with Spain. Dani could not deny the twinge of jealousy he had felt after reading Marco’s name on the list of senior call-ups—Marco with his effortless grace and raw, explosive talent, constantly a small step ahead, a fingertip out of reach. Nonetheless, Dani found consolation in the fact that they moved in the same direction, that Marco’s absence was only temporary until Dani found his way too, and that one day, they would be roommates and teammates again, arm in arm before the majestic anthem of Spain.

The bus drifted to a stop in front of the hotel that would harbor the young Spanish side for their friendly against Italy. As his teammates gathered their belongings and vacated the bus, Dani took a moment to send a brief farewell to Marco.

“ _Good luck to you too, my friend,"_ he wrote as he zipped his jacket and slung his bag over his shoulder. " _See you in two weeks”_

~~

There was no love lost between Spain and Italy as the teams met once again only weeks after Spain’s victory in the semifinals of the U21 Euros. Italy put forth a physically intense display, deploying relentless pressure and rough, no-nonsense tackles that left a few Spanish lads roughened up and hurting only minutes into the match.

“Christ, it’s just a friendly,” Borja whispered to Dani as they both lined up for a free kick. Soler, who drew the foul just outside of the box, was still complaining to the referee. “I wish they’d ease off, just a little.”

Dani shrugged. The inevitability of bruises didn’t bother him; the deprived sense of satisfaction he felt in the frustration of his opponents was more than enough to compensate for the nuisance of ill-timed challenges. But more importantly, Dani knew that he must cherish this playing time, because God knows when he would see the pitch again once he returned to Real Madrid, given the seniority, the talent, and the experience before him.

Italy did not relent in the second half and neither did Dani, and the referee seemed adamant on stashing his cards and swallowing his whistle when an arial duel completely blindsided Dani, his shoulder and neck taking most of the blunt force as a taller, stronger body crashed into him.

Dani must have blacked out for a moment because the next thing he knew, he was lying face down on the grass, surrounded by a forest of legs belonging to his teammates and the medical staff. Pathetically, he wondered where Marco was.

In the corner of his bleary vision, he noticed the neon orange of the stretcher being prepared, and that was his cue to snap back to reality because _no way_ was he coming off when Spain was only one goal ahead with almost an entire second half left to play.

“I feel fine,” he declared after blinking away the dancing spots in his vision, “I can continue.”

Dani did not regret this decision until he was subbed off close to the end of the match, feeling ill and dizzy once the adrenaline of playing had subsided. He skipped the celebrations after and went to the physio instead, complaining of the dull ache in his neck and the nausea stirring in his belly. He had not eaten anything all night, but that did not stop him from vomiting clear, bitter liquid onto the vinyl tiles of the office, only minutes into the assessment of his injury.

~~

“Oh my God, what happened to you?” Borja leaped out of his bed as soon as Dani entered their shared hotel room. It was late into the night after a gruesome match, and frankly, Dani was surprised that Borja was still awake. “No one saw where you went after the game, and the next thing we knew, you were all over the news!”

Dani glanced over to the flashing television in their hotel room, and surely enough, Marca TV was replaying footages from after the match, where Dani was stretchered into an ambulance with a brace around his neck.

He groaned. Of course the media would do everything they could to dramatize his injury.

“You’re okay though?” Borja asked.

“Yeah,” Dani answered, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion, “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone? We all had to wait for the official medical report.”

“I have a concussion,” Dani said as he shrugged off his jacket and kicked off his shoes, wanting nothing more than to crawl into bed and bid farewell to this terrible, stressful day, “I couldn’t use my phone, or be mentally stimulated in any way.”

That was what the doctor told him at least, if he wished for the quickest recovery possible and to have any chance of playing in the Euro U21 qualifier against Estonia in four days. He did call his mom and sisters to calm their anxiety and managed to shoot a quick message to Marco before the nurse took away his phone, chastising him like a school child. The rest of the messages from other family members and friends, old teammates from Betis, new teammates from Real Madrid all remained unanswered.

Dani pulled his shirt over his head, getting ready for sleep. Without invitation, Borja dropped onto Dani's bed, smiling and holding his phone at arm's length, unmistakably taking another photo of them together.

“What are you doing?” Dani asked irately, deeming his privacy violated.

“Just so everyone knows you’re okay,” Borja said, frowning at the photo, “You look kind of beat up in this picture. Do you want to take another one?”

Dani glared at Borja, before quickly running his fingers through the front of his hair, straightening his disheveled curls. “ _Yes_.”

~~

The strange thing about dreams is that they never have any preamble. They begin just as abruptly as they end, never offering an explanation as to why or how, to possibly justify the fleeting glances into an arbitrary and imaginary life. Dreams—they simply _are_.

Dani was no stranger to dreams where he found himself in the arms of people he didn’t love, people he _shouldn’t_ love. But even in the depth of his subconscious, Dani _knew_ he must keep his emotions contained, always regard romantic love with an asterisk, a grain of salt, because the potential for fallouts and repercussions felt just as real as the baseless, unwanted fantasy.

This time, however, the chemicals of his mind played an unusual trick. They conjured the image of Marco—the same Marco whom Dani had known all these years—his laughter just as radiant, his eyes just as bright. But the difference was that they were _in love_ —a calm, familiar love without the fear or uncertainty that would normally heighten Dani’s awareness and fortify his defenses. Cruelly, his brain convinced him that _this_  was the status quo, that he and Marco had fallen into the same pattern countless times before, and that they will continue to do so countless times afterwards.

The false routineness of it—Marco’s genuine affection, the rough stubble along his jaw, the strength and undeniable _maleness_ of his touch—lacked the thrills and intensity of a new love, a forbidden love, as it rightly should have manifested. But instead, the dream filled Dani’s chest with a comfortable warmth, the same warmth that abandoned his body so quickly upon waking that his skin goose-pebbled from the chills as lucid reality inevitably returned.

 _Oh God_ , Dani thought, feeling simultaneously mortified, bewildered, cold, and incredibly alone. _What the hell was that?_

He shifted gingerly in his bed as he sat up, the soreness from his neck injury intensifying after the hours of immobility. Dani refused to look beneath his sheets, despite acknowledging his discomfort and the impracticality of trying to sleep again without addressing it _somehow_.

Contemplating his options, Dani glanced to his right to see Borja soundly asleep, and Dani decided that he _really_ didn't know Borja _that_ well and rejected the possibility of an awkward conversation about this in the morning. If it had been Marco sleeping in the adjacent bed, dead to the world as usual, then Dani might actually have stayed in bed and _discreetly_ —

 _No_ , Dani commanded himself, refusing to think about Marco in this context, or _at all_.

The sky was still dark, but the pink blossom of dawn loomed at the edge of the horizon, so it was not unfeasible to be awake at this hour, to start the day earlier than originally planned. With a frustrated groan, Dani flipped over his covers and waddled to the bathroom, setting the temperature of the shower to as cold as he could withstand.


	2. Chapter 2

Dani trained indoors without the rest of the team, his tricky injury limiting his options to mostly weights and cycling. He spent his hours brooding in isolation, the unforeseen circumstances of his early morning souring his mood, while the tedious monotony of his workout offered little distraction to his overactive mind. Unhelpful to his temperament were the floor-to-ceiling windows that faced the training field, where his teammates ran, laughed, and joked about as the coaches organized a practice match. Only in the afternoon did a few teammates finally join him in the cardio room, among them Borja who claimed the vacant bike beside Dani.

“Hanging in there?” Borja asked, his smile both affable and infuriating.

“I can’t play,” Dani grumbled, “I can’t run. I can’t look at screens. I’ve been pedaling all day without getting anywhere. And Marca, this morning, body shamed me.”

“Marca?” Borja grimaced. “You read that stuff?”

“No, but I have a concussion. I can’t do anything but read.”

“Then, read a book or something—not _trash_.”

Borja dismounted his bike, reaching over to grab the crumpled newspaper among Dani’s belongings, straightening the pages of the offensive article.

“Pocket-sized, diminutive, but brazenly competitive and easily excitable,” he read aloud, breaking into laughter, “Oh, come on, they’re just teasing.”

“Don’t defend them!” Dani protested.

“Well, objectively speaking, they’re not—” Borja swallowed the end of his sentence, noticing the daggers in Dani’s eyes, before shrugging. “What can I say? Don’t flex next to Cristiano in a team photo.”

Dani halted in his tireless cycling to snatch away the newspaper, frowning down at it. A tradition existed in Real Madrid where the winning team would strike a pose after every training session, a tradition that Dani happily upheld. And consistent with his approach to most things in life, Dani made it a personal goal to best his antics each time the opportunity arose, his creations ranging from pin-up model to rock star. That being said, perhaps his latest decision to flex his relatively thin arm next to Cristiano Ronaldo—a sculpted, statuesque Adonis of an athlete—invited ridicule from a third person perspective.

“Lucas did it before me,” Dani pointed out, “Isco too.”

“Yeah, and they looked just as ridiculous,” Borja said, snatching back the newspaper and crumpling it back into a ball. “Forget this. I know what will cheer you up! A few of the guys were thinking about going to the Bernabéu for the qualifier against Italy. Who knows? Maybe Marco will get some minutes!”

~~

Spain’s senior side promoted a handful of the former U21 boys that took Poland by storm, among them Saúl Ñíguez, Denis Suárez, Geri Deulofeu, and Marco. Marco was given a start in his first competitive debut, completing Spain’s attacking trident alongside Isco and Koké. The talent and depth of the Spanish midfield overran a struggling Italy, with Isco bagging a brace in the first half, before Álvaro Morata scored the third coming off the bench.

After the resounding victory, Borja, Dani, and the rest of the U21 boys joined their senior teammates in the locker rooms to offer their congratulations.

“Hey, how’s the neck?” Marco was all smiles as he approached Dani, wearing only a towel around his waist.

The image of an undressed Marco was by no means new to Dani— _none_ of this should feel new—but Dani struggled to stabilize his heartbeat, stubbornly forcing his gaze to Marco’s eyes, and his eyes _only_.

“It’s fine. It’s better already. Just a minor sprain.”

“That’s good news,” Marco smiled, “I was worried it might’ve been serious.”

He reached over and rubbed the back of Dani’s neck, gently and with affection, and Dani felt like jumping out of his own skin. Marco withdrew the moment Dani tensed up, softly apologizing, assuming he had accidentally caused pain to his injury.

“Good job today,” Dani said, perhaps too abruptly, his hand subconsciously reaching to where Marco had just touched, rubbing away the prickled hairs at the base of his neck.

“I was okay,” Marco shrugged, as humble as ever. “Isco really stole the show, though.”

“Yeah,” Dani agreed numbly, “Isco was great.”

They fell silent afterwards, as Marco watched Dani with worry in his eyes, and rightly so, because it felt so incredibly awkward between them that Dani wanted to die.

It wasn’t fair, Dani thought miserably, because Marco probably assumed that Dani was upset about the call-ups, about Marco being included for Spain while Dani was not. And _fine_ , Dani did feel aggrieved at the time the names were released, but he would never be so childish—so selfish or _cruel_ —to misdirect his frustration at one of his oldest and closest friends. But neither could Dani tell Marco the truth, because _I had a really gay dream about you last night_ wasn’t something that can be disclosed so freely, without causing even greater repercussions.

“Sergio wanted to go out tonight, to celebrate,” Marco eventually broke the silence, “You and Borja, and everyone else should come too.”

“I—I can’t.” Dani looked dejectedly at the floor, “Concussion.”

“Oh, well, we can go somewhere else too. Maybe a quiet place for a drink,” Marco offered, “Not everyone can keep up with Sergio, you know?”

“Ay! Marco!” Sergio called from across the room, his boisterous voice rising above everyone else’s. “ _Gabana_ in an hour. You need a ride?”

“I— _yeah_ , but—” Marco began, before Dani interrupted.

“No, it’s fine. You should go.”

“You sure?” Marco hesitated, the look of concern lingering on his face, and Dani made an effort to appear composed, nonchalant, and _normal_ under his best friend’s scrutiny.

“Yeah, don’t mind me.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Go have fun. You guys deserve it, really.”

“Okay, I guess I’ll catch you later,” Marco eventually said, offering a small smile and gentle pat along Dani’s arm, “Get some rest and feel better soon.”

~~

“Christ! _Fuck_! What the hell are you watching?”

That was Borja’s choice of greeting as he stumbled into their shared hotel room, after a night out with their national teammates.

“The future of western politics,” Dani grinned as he uncovered his eyes from his sleep mask—courtesy of the hotel. Illuminated on the TV was a man wearing a grotesque rubber mask of Uncle Sam, grinning eerily as he loomed over a cowering woman. Blood soon splattered against the walls and the ceiling, the screaming never subsiding even as the scene faded to black.

“You’re not supposed to be watching anything.” Borja cringed, averting his eyes.

“I’m not,” Dani insisted. “I’m only listening, but good thing you’re here. I’m a little confused about what’s going on.”

“No, I am not watching that,” Borja protested hotly.

“You don’t like scary movies?”

“Obviously not!”

“Why?

“Because I don’t like being scared.”

“Oh, come on,” Dani teased, “It’s not even that scary. It’s not _real_.”

“I don’t need to believe in something to be freaked out by it.”

Dani paused, before stating, “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Turn it off, Ceballos,” Borja shouted, “Or I’m staying with Carlos and Mikel!”

“Alright, fine,” Dani conceded, selecting the TV guide, “What do you want to watch instead? Game of Thrones? Naked and Afraid? _Las Mu_ _ñ_ _ecas de la Mafia?”_

“We have briefings at eight tomorrow.” Borja plucked the remote from Dani’s hands and switched off the TV. “Go to sleep!”

~~

Dani remembered when American politics felt largely like a joke in Europe—a long, drawn-out soap opera that many people tuned in to every night, got angry at, and became strangely invested in as they watched the train-wreck unfold before their eyes. Perhaps the biggest mistake was treating the events like fiction from a faraway place, the politicians like caricatures rather than real people,  _powerful_ people, who would soon reshape the political landscape radically and terribly, not just in the United States but also the rest of the world.

A day, in a year, where all crimes including murder was legal. What a stupid idea.

“It’s supposed to be good for the economy,” Marco rehashed from the same article that he and Dani both read this morning, published by the single government-regulated news outlet in Spain. “Crime rates are lowered throughout the rest of the year, and the increased sales of weapons and security systems also jumpstart the economy.”

Dani could only attest to this statement anecdotally, which he knew didn’t mean much. Sure, for most of the year, he lived a comfortable life playing football and earning more than enough money to meet these newer demands of living. But being a footballer also made life tricky, because certain people grew to hate you—with a passionate, sadistic, incontestable hate—simply because you played for the club that signed you, and you did your job well.

It didn’t matter if you had never done harm to anyone personally; invisible, anonymous enemies would always resurface during this time of year.

After barricading his own home, Dani packed his bags to stay with Marco—neither of them having family in Madrid except for, maybe, each other. They shared a small, quiet dinner as sirens blared beyond the shutters and watched mindless telenovelas for the rest of the evening, until Marco fell asleep beneath his blanket, his head resting on Dani’s lap.

During a commercial break, Dani got up for a drink of water, careful not to disturb Marco as he shifted from underneath and replaced the space he had previously occupied with a couch pillow. He went into the kitchen to fill his glass and was halfway from finishing his water when he noticed a handprint smeared in dark red along the metallic door of Marco’s fridge.

 _No_ , Dani thought, his blood churning cold as he turned to the front door and found it unlocked and _wide open_.

The glass he dropped shattered on the floor, as he stumbled down the hall as quickly as he could to slam the door shut. He bolted the locks and reset the security, panic ringing so loudly in his ears that he nearly missed the heavy thudding of boots approaching from behind.

Dani turned to see a man wearing the head of a bull, charging at him with an axe at the end of his long, powerful swing. Dani screamed and ducked instinctively, sliding down the door just in time for the axe to chip the wood above his head. He kicked out at the man towering over him, aiming for the crotch and hearing a guttural moan the moment he made a solid connection.

Dani quickly scrambled aside as the bull man collapsed above him, wasting no time to pulled the axe from the door and hacked it into the back of his stunned assailant. The sickening clamor of metal cutting bone reverberated through the axe, through Dani’s arms, and Dani felt his stomach twist as warm blood splattered on his hands and clothes, seeping into the welcome mat at the entrance of Marco’s home.

“Oh God,” Dani gasped, fighting the bitter taste of bile rising in his throat, “Oh God, oh God...”

But there was little time to retreat into his horror, to be paralyzed by fear, because Marco was still inside—alone and _asleep_ —and God knows how many more of these monsters were lurking in the shadows of the large, empty house.

Dani reached for the handle of the axe and with a nauseating slosh, dislodged it from the cooling body. He held the weapon close to his chest as he slowly made his way back up the corridor, the distance he traveled appearing to stretch, the dimensions contorting as the rooms transformed into a labyrinth rather than a home— _Marco’s_ home, where Dani had spent just as much time as he had in his own house in Madrid.

The TV screen in the living room had faded to black, but Dani did not remember turning it off. He squinted into the darkness and whispered Marco’s name, his heart sinking when he saw the discarded blanket on the couch, while his best friend was nowhere to be found.

Suddenly, all was blinding, and all was bright, as the harsh rays of a spotlight beamed down on him. It took a moment for Dani to adjust his eyes, but his surroundings soon became visible and clear, as he deciphered two women in rabbit masks holding bedazzled rifles, a fat man with an elephant head wielding a bloodied pipe, and a smaller man in a monkey suit gripping the end of a noose tied around the neck of their only prisoner.

Marco sat between the masked assailants, blindfolded and immobilized to a chair. His ears were covered by headphones, with music blasting so loudly that even Dani could hear the tremors of the bass. The monkey man jerked the rope, and Marco made a small sound in protest—terrified, sensory-deprived, and oblivious to his horror-struck best friend merely a few meters away.

“Stop, _please_ ,” Dani begged, voice rasping with desperation, humiliation, _fear_ , “Don’t hurt him. I’ll do anything—just don’t hurt him.”

One of the rabbits pointed her rifle at Dani, and then, at the floor. Dani took it as his cue to kneel, carefully relinquishing the axe before raising his hands to his head. The other rabbit approached him, her hips swaying in sadistic playfulness. She caressed Dani along his jaw before digging her perfectly manicured fingers into the back of his scalp. 

Dani hissed from the pain as she yanked his hair backwards, squeezing his eyes shut just as the butt of her rifle came crashing into his vision.

~~

Dani woke up in the middle of the night with his heart pounding in his ears.

No more indie horror films—he decided—no more slasher satires, no more ham-fisted dystopias with all their plot holes and B-class movie flaws. _No more._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think i used this chapter as an excuse to write a short the purge/dystopian au. 
> 
> and today's game and the rare marco/dani start motivated me to actually finish this part.
> 
> comments/feedback are always loved. enjoy~


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol im just gonna throw this on here and forget about today's match. enjoy~

Dreams can be strangely particular and inconsistent with reality because, sometimes, your subconscious simply could not be bothered. Dani worked his way through his morning routine with fastidiousness and rigor, garnering all of his attention to the tasks at hand. His razor hummed with a familiar done, his toothpaste tasted of sugar and mint. He even uncapped his shampoo bottle and smelled it, recognizing the familiar blends of thyme and eucalyptus, revering in the _realness_ of his surroundings. He needed to establish a habit, to incorporate these frequent reality checks into his daily routine, so that the next time he ventured into the treacherous realms of his subconscious, he could at least become self-aware and maybe, attempt to wake himself up.

By the time he stepped out of the bathroom, Borja was already pulling on his shoes.

“You have exactly six minutes before the bus leaves,” Borja informed him.

Dani yawned, scratching his damp hair. “I’m not going to briefings.”

“You’re not?” Borja looked up at him, surprised . “Are you sick?”

“I have a concussion,” Dani said with a twinge of irritation, “Thanks for remembering.”

“I know _that_ ," Borja rolled his eyes, "But it hasn’t stopped you from doing everything else.”

Borja had a point, but now, on top of his concussion, Dani was also sleep deprived, plagued by persistent and _unwanted_ dreams about Marco every time he closed his eyes. His body demanded sleep—deep, continuous, unperturbed sleep—and Dani simply could not make it through another early morning without it, captaincy be damned.

He never wanted to be captain, he thought miserably, even if he enjoyed telling his teammates what to do with a marginally greater likelihood of them actually listening. It was fun for awhile, but not worth the long-term responsibilities and the greater expectations of good behavior. In fact, Dani could not wait until Jesús came back from injury so he could relinquish the armband.

“I’ll let the coaches know you’re not feeling well,” Borja bid his farewell as Dani returned to bed, “Get some rest.”

~~

Dani breathed a sigh of relief as he straightened his toothbrush inside the holder and returned his razor to the cabinet behind the mirror. He smelled his shampoo, his body wash, his deodorant, his aftershave—recognizing the familiar scents of his mornings, the scents of reality.

 _Everything is normal_ , he stared at his reflection in the fogged up mirror, _everything is fine._

Dani walked out of the bathroom, his footsteps a soft shuffle against the carpet of the hotel room. Marco turned beneath the layers of blankets, reaching for his phone on the nightstand. Bright light peaked through the corners of their windows, but the thick curtains were drawn closed, shrouding their small room in shadows. Marco squinted as the glow of his phone illuminated his sleep-ladened features, his yawn muffled by the back of his hand.

Dani approached and placed a kiss a top the swirl of Marco’s thick, dark hair—breathing in the heady scent of shampoo, sweat, skin, _Marco_ . This _must_ be reality too.

“It’s still early,” Marco said.

“I know. Sleep a little more.”

“Did you just take a shower?”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” There was a touch of petulance beneath Marco’s sleep-heavy voice, which Dani found impossibly endearing, “I would have joined you.”

“I needed a moment to myself,” Dani laughed, “Bathroom’s all yours, if you want it.”

“This is no fun. You’re all nice and clean, but I’m still covered in— _stuff_.”

Marco turned onto his back, creating space for Dani beneath the warmth of their blankets. Dani fought the temptation for the moment, approaching the window instead.

“Who cares? The world is ending.”

Dani brushed aside the curtains and grimaced a the blood-soaked sky, the faint ringing of car alarms, and muffled commotion as looters broke into the stores across the street. The great ball of fire above the skyline appeared frozen in time, but Dani knew that it was crashing towards them, soon to char the surface of their green-blue planet to nothing but cinders.

“What does it look like outside?” Marco asked.

“There are people in the streets, but there’s no point in stealing anything now.” Dani paused briefly, turning to Marco. “Do you want to keep the curtains open? Watch as it happens?”

“No,” Marco said, “Leave it, and come back to bed.”

Dani straightened the curtains before crawling beneath the sheets, sinking into Marco’s warm embrace.

“How much time do you think we have left?” Marco whispered against his lips, and Dani laughed, breaking their kiss.

“You want to go again already?”

“No, maybe?” Marco shifted gingerly, “I think I’m still too sore.”

“Yeah,” Dani rubbed at the knotted muscles in his lower back, “Same here.”

They kissed, and it was more than enough, to feel Marco’s lips against his, the synchronized beating of their hearts, their roaming hands that left not an inch of warm skin untouched. They kissed, and Dani decided that there was no one else he would rather share this moment with, even as the sky outside transitioned from blood red to blinding white, even as the intensity of a collapsing star engulfed every delicate life in its path.

~~

Dani jolted awake to the buzzing of his phone, blinking away images of Marco and the fiery apocalypse and wondering why must his dreams be _everything_ at once—simultaneously sexy, heart-wrenching, terrifying, and morbid.

“Hi—hello,” Dani answered hastily, not wanting the call to be transferred to voicemail. Marco was on the other line, damn his luck.

“Hey,” Marco sounded hesitant, “Did I wake you?”

“Yeah,” Dani ran his palm down his face, sinking back into the bed. “I was just—taking a nap. I skipped briefings.”

“Oh,” said Marco, “Sorry, nevermind—you should get some rest.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Dani quickly reassured his friend, “I was getting up, anyway. What’s up?”

There was a brief pause before Marco carefully spoke. “I was just wondering if you’d like to grab dinner—since we’re both leaving Spain tomorrow. But if you’re not up for it, that’s totally fine too.”

“No, wait—” Dani winced as he checked the time on the cable box. It was already late in the afternoon. “I’d like that. Dinner sounds like a good idea.”

~~

Dinner was a terrible idea, Dani thought morosely as he picked at his plate while Marco across the table did the same. They decided to try a taco bar that just opened because taco bars are lowkey, taco bars are fun, taco bars are an appropriate venue for two best friends—almost brothers—but nothing beyond that. But unfortunately, even the endless merits of a taco bar could not mask the awkward tension or the heavy silence that lingered between them as they mechanically ingested their dinner.

Dani felt that he should say something to Marco, but _I’ve had three dreams about you in the past two nights_ didn’t seem like an appropriate ice breaker.

“Are olives considered a vegetable?” he asked instead, and Marco dropped his taco before Dani even finished his sentence.

“I don’t want to do this,” Marco said, “This is the last thing I want to happen.”

“What?” Dani looked up from the impaled olive on his fork.

“Are you—” Marco bit the corner of his lips, watching Dani with creased brows and sad eyes, “Are you unhappy in Madrid?”

“No, _no_ —I really like it here.” Dani’s answer was too quick, too emphasized, too tailored for the questions hurled by reporters and fans, in order to quench their beleaguering curiosity. It was a poor response, and Marco remained rightfully unconvinced.

“I was afraid of this,” he sighed, “I shouldn’t have said anything in Poland. I shouldn’t have asked you to come."

“What?” Dani objected, “No, I wanted to come!”

“Would you have came if I didn’t ask you to?”

“Well, I came here because of you,” Dani said as guilt washed over Marco’s face. He quickly rephrased, “I mean—You’re my best friend. I wanted to be your teammate, play alongside you. That’s one of the reasons, at least.”

“We’re not exactly doing much playing.”

“I knew that before I signed up—I’m not _stupid_ .” Dani insisted, “I knew I have to work my way up, just like how you worked your way up. I knew things might not be easy right away. I knew _all_ of that. I can’t believe we’re having this conversation now—or _at all_.”

“I—I don’t know,” Marco looked away, sighing, “Things just felt off between us since the call ups. I keep on thinking that you would be going to Liechtenstein too, if it weren’t for—for lack of playing time _here_.”

“Oh, come on,” Dani protested, “It’s not even about that.”

“What to you mean?” Marco asked.

“That’s not why I’m are like this—” He gestured vaguely. “Or at least, not what you’re suggesting.”

“What’s the matter, then?”

“I—I can’t tell you,” Dani said, realizing he might have overextended this conversation, “It’s embarrassing.”

“You tell me embarrassing things all the time,” Marco argued.

“Well, it’s different this time. It’s— _private_.”

This wasn’t some cheesy pick up line that Dani wanted to test out first, or poor judgement tattoos in questionable places that only a handful of people in the world knew about. But Marco’s stare pierced into him—anxious, skeptical, and hurt—and Dani honestly considered giving up and telling the truth so that _maybe_ they could move on.

“I—I’ve been having dreams,” Dani said finally, his voice trailing to a mumble, “Really weird, vivid dreams.”

Marco furrowed his brows. “Like nightmares?”

“Yeah, but not that simple.” Sure some of the dreams were nightmarish, but even the bad ones had some nice parts. “They felt like the dream equivalent of— _fusion food_. Like there’s too much different things going on, and the pieces—they never quite fit together.

“Right,” Marco nodded, somehow managing to follow that metaphor. “Are they recurring dreams?”

“Some parts, yeah,” Dani said miserably, “I think it might have something to do with the concussion, and playing for Spain, and—I guess—I just miss having you around. Playing for Spain isn’t the same without you.”

“Your recurring dreams are about me?” Marco asked, surprised, and Dani felt his ears burn from humiliation.

“Yes, but I’m not—” he stammered, “I don’t _want_ to dream about you. It just _happens_.”

“So, what happens?” Marco asked in all seriousness. “In your dreams?”

“It’s stupid,” Dani inhaled deeply, deciding that death would have been more welcomed than this conversation right now, “Sometimes the world might be ending. Sometimes we’re just there— _hanging out_.”

“Are we still friends?”

“What? Yes, we’re _friends_ ,” Dani responded, incredulous, “We’re friends even when everything we know and love is burning to the ground. I can’t believe this is your primary concern.”

Marco laughed, perhaps finally realizing the ridiculousness of it all, of them both. “I was just worried—I don’t know why. We see each other all the time now, I know that, but Madrid is such a busy place, with so much going on and so much expectations that sometimes, I feel like I’m getting lost. And this week, away with the national team, I—I missed having you around, too.”

Dani reached across the table, covering his hand over Marco’s, and Marco welcomed the gesture, turning over his hand and aligning their palms.

“We’ve never really played for Spain without each other,” Dani contemplated out loud, “It’s weird.”

“Yeah,” Marco agreed mutedly.

“But it won’t be like this forever. I’ll get there too.”

“I know,” Marco said, “I don’t doubt that for a minute.”

“In the meantime, go light the stage on fire,” Dani grinned, giving Marco’s wrist a small, affectionate tug. “I expect match winners from you. I expect _golazos_.”

Marco’s laughter reached his eyes—infectious, open, and brilliant—and it was the first time he had laughed genuinely all night. “The next goal I score for Spain, I’ll dedicate to you.”

~~

Marco dropped off Dani at his hotel, before bidding farewell and driving away. Dani lingered on the sidewalk for a minute, watching Marco turn at the corner and disappear out of sight. The previous joviality shared with his friend faded to calm reflection and also, a twinge of loneliness. Dani realized that he never directly addressed his problems and wondered if the dreams will return.

Maybe one day, he would tell Marco the full truth, or alternatively, bring his silent suffering to his grave. Both options seemed equally appealing, to be honest.

Dani sighed, realizing that there was no point in being overly dramatic or self-deprecating. Marco had Lichtenstein ahead of him, and Dani had Estonia, and after that, they would be back with Real Madrid. A lot of things would occupy their attention, a lot of time remained to properly adjust, and a lot of chances would fall his way too, if he ever wished to readdress these not-so-subtle messages from his untiring subconscious.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments are appreciated and loved!


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